


pactum

by bukkunkun



Series: The Chilling Adventures of Sabriku Spellman [2]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Begging, Biting, Blood and Injury, Cock Warming, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Demon Deals, Explicit Sexual Content, Eye Gouging, Foot Jobs, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Rough Sex, Scratching, Shibari, Witches, fun for the whole family, yeehaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 11:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17446448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunkun
Summary: (pactum: agreement)Braig makes a deal with a demon. The Coven will fall, and he sure as hell wasn't going to fall with it.Written forxeyat love gunpoint, set inclaudeandjam's fantastic witch Riku au!





	pactum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prosecutorpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosecutorpumpkin/gifts).



> > gore: h  
>  me: ooo!! that's fun!! love horror!!  
>  horny guro: h ;^)  
>  me, d*ng in the air: oh shit? o h ? Sh i t?
>> 
>> — ⭕️ bukkun @ nines detroit’s giant tits (@trickscd) [16 January 2019](https://twitter.com/trickscd/status/1085374882249101312?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw)
> 
> happy halloween!!! it's halloween forever bitches!! thank you very much to xey for holding me at love gunpoint to write this! this was a very fun challenge !!
> 
> Wanna control my content? [Here's how](https://twitter.com/trickscd/status/1070534056368996352)!

The Council expressly forbade the illicit contact with the Darkness, by anyone, even the Hegemonies that oversaw the blooding of every witch into the Coven. Every single witch he knew—from their precious little halfling princess Kairi to her guard dog Riku, followed this rule, and for good reason.

The Darkness was normally not something any normal being—neither witches nor humans—could be able to control.

Braig, however, fancied himself a little above that. A little more above than even the supposed Bride of the Dark Kairi and all that halfling magic power she purportedly boasted.

There were a lot of things that could go wrong in a summoning—a misspelled letter here, a wrong rune there, broken chalk lines and incorrect offerings, to name a few, but as a member of the Council Inquisition, Braig has seen his fair share of mistakes.

He has seen his fair share of deaths, of freakish summons and deals gone wrong. They were all kept deep in the bowels of the Council’s Citadel, a sprawling, heaving beast of a castle, where its scales were of cobblestone, its innards the twisting, winding halls of a castle eternal and awesome. Here, where failures and bloody memories slept, no one would find him in clandestine correspondence with the Darkness itself.

There were so many things to keep in mind of, so many little rules and intricacies that you were never taught as a witch in the Coven. Little unspoken rules like games little children were wont to play in the sunshine, ones you learned by heart through trial and error, but there were glaring differences between playing childhood games and the forbidden art of summoning the Darkness.

One, you paid for in sweat, in sweet little skin-deep gashes across your knees, an ache in your cheeks from smiling and laughing, a warm tingling in your skin from sunshine kisses.

The other, you paid for in blood, in broken bones and lachrymose despair the colour of silver unicorn blood. You paid for it with the spoils of souls in luminescent amber jars the colour of the sunset, of lives that have come and gone and went.

The Citadel dungeons held a mass of writhing, damned souls trapped in the mortal coils of their flesh, to be kept there either to be observed and possibly to be saved, or as punishment.

Punishment, for those little witches who refused to listen, to obey.

Braig strode past the weeping widower warlocks who howled into the dark like wolves to the moon, past the melting amalgamates of suffering youths obsessed with the idea of eternal matrimony. The poor unfortunate souls down here, he was not like them.

He would not be like them—he’d perfected it, the unspoken art of summoning the demons that dwelled the dark.

Everything was perfect to a T—the chalk lines, the candles, the incantations, but there was more to a stage play than the props and the setting.

The actors carried the show, and Braig was naught but a man of the stage.

_I would not do anything to provoke the Darkness._

Quiet, silent. A whisper of feet against creaking, weeping willowwood, a smirk on his face.

_I would not invite them to talk, to communicate in any way._

The demon had to come to you first. A defence against the Council, more than the demon itself. It was a failsafe that would help Braig out of trouble—a lifeline, of sorts, to tether him to the warm amber lights of the Coven above, as he betrayed them down below.

_I would not be afraid._

And he would not be afraid. To face the Darkness, you must first learn to not fear it.

Demons were tricky. They were wily and slimy in tongue, in sweetened honeyed words and false angelic promises of a better life in exchange for the dearest price they could offer.

But Braig had failsafes against that, too. The deepest red roses, the finest in the Citadel glasshouse, to ensure things went _his_ way and no one else’s.

“I greet you in scorn, and I avert my eyes from your temerity.” He said slowly, in the rumbling earthy syllabic of the Old Tongue as he pressed a knife to his finger. No use cutting up the whole palm if all you needed were a few drops of the stuff—a common textbook mistake by any newcomer who ever thought those silly adaptations on TV were anywhere _near_ accurate. Even the Coven looked for a scar across the palm, not some silly little papercut in the middle of the index finger.

Blood beaded at the tip of his finger, a ruby drop of liquid life rolling down from the wound that stung something fierce, but Braig ignored it to kneel down, squeezing more blood out of his finger to drop onto the cedar wood below him.

“Appear before me in spite, sinful creature, as I beckon you from the Darkness beyond.”

There was a moment’s silence, a second of hesitation that would have dissuaded any first-timer from continuing, but Braig was no fool.

He pressed his finger down to the floor, and smeared his blood in a crude line to the right.

Nothing.

Then, diagonally to the north-west.

Nothing.

And then down—

A hiss, a crackle of energy as the air thrummed with power, with _anger,_ and Braig grinned, stopping just a hair’s width shy of touching his drying blood as a pair of sharp, shiny black high heel boots appeared before him, hooking under his chin as it was unceremoniously jerked up to force him to look up into the scowling face of a silver fox of a man, a set of red-hot horns piping rage as his golden eyes glinted at him dangerously. Around them, the candles burned an angry, otherworldly gold, and Braig couldn’t help the widening of his smirk.

There was something in the way the demon looked downright _furious,_ an odd sense of rage that felt impossibly cold and barren and yet like an unforgiving, roaring furnace like a lake of fire. There was something to admire in that impossibility—something beautiful, and Braig couldn’t quite say he wasn’t disinterested in the man that appeared before him.

“Complete that protection sigil, human, I dare you.” He hissed, and Braig smirked.

“Demon.” He greeted, slowly getting up, showing the demon his hand as he carefully pulled away from the sigil he’d painted in one of the spaces of the summoning circle he made. “I have a bargain to strike with you.”

“Don’t all humans who summon my kind have a bargain to strike?” The demon leered slowly, crossing his leg over the other as his tail swished absently. “Oh? Wait. No, not a human.”

Braig crossed his arms, grinning slightly.

“Witch.” The demon seemed pleased, and bowed his head, humming in approval. “Ah, craftier. I should have known. To whom do I owe the pleasure of meeting?”

_I would never give them any tethers, nothing to bind them to me._

If there was something young witches learned as children, dancing along the staves of childhood nursery rhymes, it was to never let a demon know your real name.

It had been a long old practice, long done by warlocks against the Djinn they summoned as their familiars, but now when witches could synthesize their own familiars as Spirits or Nightmares, there had been no need for such formalities. Sentience spelled a world of difference in the binding of contracts—one where little creatures like Spirits and Nightmares lacked in understanding, and could obey every beck and call of their masters without a word in edgewise.

Higher beings, however, like the Djinn or demons, possessed a higher understanding of the world than clumsy little Bumpis stuck in an Amazon box, crying out for its master to set it free. Higher beings, unfortunately, knew how to trick. How to steal.

How to _kill._

“Xigbar.” Braig replied, giving the demon a low-sweeping bow, full of flourish and pomp, and the demon’s grin widened. “Am I right to call you Xehanort, demon?”

“That is my name.” The demon nodded once, and in the flicker of an eye, the silver fox was a younger man, somewhere slightly around Braig’s age, with a toned chest that peeked between the open gap of his fur-lined coat. Long silver hair billowed out from behind him, and Braig swallowed from a mouth that felt too dry. “Though I am many,” the man said, voice clearer and sans the rumble the silver fox had.

Another blink, and another man took his place—a beautiful young man, barely a proper adult, with full lips and short silver hair. “Though we are of a singularity.”

Golden, cat-like eyes flashed as the demon stared at him unblinkingly, holding his hand out at Braig. The witch could see a black shackle clinging to the demon’s wrist, sealed tight with a rose-petal that looked all too delicate to be there, if not for the magic that held it steady.

“We can be contained, we can be freed.” The young man said, and Braig could see sharp, sharp teeth behind soft, smirking lips.

“All it takes is the wealth of man’s greed.”

The air turned cold, and beyond him, Braig could hear the wails of despair from the failures trapped in the dungeons of the Citadel. They knew this—the beginning of a deal, the arrival of a demon, ready to ruin another foolish life, snuffing out souls like flickering candles in the middle of a hurricane.

Braig blinked, and it was the silver fox again, tapping a painted nail—sharp to a point, practically a _claw_ —against his cheek.

“Tell me your wish, witch.” He said. “And I will name my price.”

“Give me power.”

“Ah, like all the other men before you.” The demon scoffed, but Braig held his hand up for the demon to be quiet.

“I’m a witch, and you know that. There’s more to this than just what you think I want from you.” Braig said, and Xehanort raised an eyebrow at him. “A halfling has been born into the Coven, and everyone and their mother is hailing her the next Bride of the Dark.”

“Oh?” Xehanort crossed his arms again, leaning back into the air into a relaxed sprawl. “Tell me more.”

“The Council is blind to it, but I can see what’s happening. This _little_ _girl_ ,” He spat the word out like a curse, “She is no Darkness incarnate. In fact, not a single _drop_ of the Darkness is in her blood! The witch power in her blood gave her magic, yes, but the _human_ part of her made her powerful in the Light.”

Xehanort looked mildly surprised.

“Oh, dear.” He said flatly.

“The Coven will crumble on her Induction, on the wedding.” Braig grinned slowly, “Unless someone else will interfere.”

“And you wish that to be you?” Xehanort asked, but Braig shook his head.

“All I ask is that I survive the consequences.” He offered his hand—the one with the cut finger—to the demon. “The Council will realise the error of their ways, and there will be chaos. They’ll kill each other for it—the Darkness is seeping into everyone with every gathering, and it’ll be strongest when their little Bride meets her groom.”

“Ah,” Xehanort nodded, “You want to survive.”

“Someone has to.” Braig grinned, lowering his hand. “And if that’s me—well, the other witches won’t have much argument if I took over, right?”

Xehanort regarded him for a moment, but eventually nodded. “Very well. You seem to be crafty as they come.” He smirked, and considered the cuff around his wrist. “Your offering, while rather flattering, is less than satisfactory to rectify our conditions.”

Braig raised an eyebrow at the demon. “Roses, right at the moment of their blooming? Less than satisfactory? Don’t they have enough life force in them to be effective?”

“Oh, by all means.” Xehanort jingled the offensive blackness around his wrist with an air of amusement around him, the shackle still bound with the rose petal. “It is just—never enough, is it?”

The air around them wafted with the scent of it suddenly, apropos of nothing, and Braig frowned.

“Insatiable beast.”

“Like you are satiated yourself, Xigbar?” The demon smirked, and crossed his legs again. “What can you offer me in exchange?”

Braig smirked. “Their so-called Princess of Darkness.” He replied, and Xehanort’s expression sank into one of displeasure, when he held his hand up defensively. “ _And,_ the true Bride of the Dark.”

There, the demon’s lips curled up into a tiny interested smirk.

“A worthy exchange.” He said, and offered his hand for Braig to take. “Seal the deal.”

Braig made a move to reach for it—but stopped.

“It can’t be that simple.”

The demon’s smirk widened.

“Seal it with a kiss.” He said, and turned his hand down, palm-up, in a gentler offering. Braig cautiously reached for his hand, and the demon raised his knuckles to brush his lips against them.

A facsimile of tenderness, one that demons normally never held much high regard for.

“Thought you were insatiable.” Braig leered, and the old man smiled against his skin, chilling and cold, like the kiss of a fist colliding against a tender, bruising cheek.

“And I thought you were a little less knowledgeable about demons than most.” Xehanort replied. “It appears that I have made a miscalculation.”

Braig scoffed, and pulled his hand away from the demon to shrug his robe off. Xehanort tutted, clicking his tongue as he reached forward to stop Braig’s hands with an oddly gentle touch, and the witch raised an eyebrow at him.

“I am not a monster like most of my kind, either.” Xehanort said. “I am a gentleman, and I would most certainly not consider this kind of malediction against you if you did not wish it.”

Braig cast him a skeptical look.

The demon leered at him.

“Lip service, of course. Payment is payment, but I do appreciate a good image now and then.” He patted Braig’s cheek patronisingly, chuckling. “And by all means, a good image can get you far, especially in the company of those lesser than you.”

“And what of me?”

“You are keeping up.” The demon replied, not quite an answer, and the room went black.

* * *

When Braig opened his eyes again, he was inside a beautiful, elegantly-furnished room of obsidian and burgundy. It had no windows, nondescript walls of gleaming, void-black that felt like it was sucking Braig into its emptiness when he just looked at it. An ornate mirror framed by faces frozen in destitution and fear hung on the right wall, writhing masses of limbs and broken-fingered hands bearing its weight like a Herculean feat along the gleaming gold finish. Faintly, Braig could heat the sound of anguished screams—the damned, to name a few, trapped in the torture of eternity between a sheet of glass and silver. It bore no reflection, showing instead an empty, desolate chamber with rising walls of reflective, shimmering blue-silver flames, and in the middle was the hunched-over body of a young woman, seemingly frozen in a fetal position. A sword was stuck into her back like a key on a wind-up doll, and rivulets of crystalline blood flowed from the wound it made in her spine.

Braig tore his eyes away from her hauntingly familiar short blue hair, and tattered, off-white sleeves.

A dresser stood in the opposite corner of the room, in mint condition without a single fingerprint marring its perfect, shiny surface.

This time, much to his surprise, Braig could see his reflection staring back at him.

His reflection was missing an eye, bleeding out from an empty socket, and sporting a large scar along his cheek. He frowned slightly, only to have his face turned by a burning cold hand at his chin. He turned to see the younger Xehanort—the bare-chested man—inspecting him carefully, like he was a prized sweetmeat on display. The witch jerked his head away from him, hearing the sound of Xehanort’s binding cuff jingling with his movement, and the demon laughed, turning around to saunter over to a bed Braig had failed to notice before.

The frame was grand, carved roses framing four sturdy pillars of solid obsidian woodwork. A canopy of sheer red curtains covered a bed with deep red sheets, and Braig raised an eyebrow at the sight of it.

“It’s, uh. A little cheesy?” He said, and Xehanort chuckled, shifting back to the old man as he moved the curtains aside.

“Again, I am no barbarian.” He said, and Braig looked at him. “And this time, I tell you the truth. There is something about rutting into the floor that feels rather animalistic, Xigbar, unless of course, you’d prefer to be taken as a simple cockwarmer and not a partner like I prefer to deal with higher members of the Coven.”

“What—shit?” Braig blinked at him. “Don’t be crass.”

“Says the fool who curses in a demon’s presence.”

Braig shot him a wry look. “You’re not exactly the type who should be offended my swearing, of all people.”

“That is true.” Xehanort hummed, “But I am merely calling you out on your hypocrisy for my crassness.” The man sneered at him. “Not that there is much to denounce about that. I find a little bit of fight and blood quite titillating.”

“Just a little bit?” Braig sneered, and the next thing he knew, the whole world shifted, and he was on the bed, sinking into a sea of silk and down, a sigh escaping his lips at the sinful comfort it brought him.

“Maybe a lot of it, actually.” The youngest Xehanort loomed over him, straddling his hips with a delicious pressure that it tore an unexpected groan from Braig’s throat. “I like breaking my toys.”

“A bit counterproductive there, pal.” Braig managed through grit teeth, his hands flying down to the young Xehanort’s hips, and the young man’s grin widened, showing him those sharp, sharp teeth he’d spotted before. “Can’t make use of your power if I’m snapped in half.”

“I can put you back together.” Young Xehanort purred, rutting his hips down against Braig’s, and the witch hissed, gripping the demon hard enough that it would have definitely bruised any normal human being.

“Lucky for you, I am no normal being.” Xehanort’s smile was a blade against his skin, and Braig swallowed hard, feeling his arousal starting to stir against the heat of Xehanort’s thighs. The young man smirked at him, grinding down against him harder, and the witch hissed, throwing his head back against the pillows.

 _Of course_ the demon could hear what was in his head. Of _fucking_ course.

“Ah, please tell me you have experience?” Xehanort cooed, slowly gyrating his hips on top of Braig, and the witch flinched at the sensation of their clothes melting away, hot lava against his skin as Xehanort morphed into his older form, bare-chested and gorgeous as the black coat melted away into the shadows behind them. The room seemingly melted away from his vision, but Braig could only stare up at Xehanort, his eyes gravitating on the curve of the demon’s tendon, his intense, domineering stare as an unseeing force pinned Braig’s hands to the bed. “It would spell a _world’s_ worth of difference if I was dealing with a virgin.”

“I’ve fucked,” Braig spat, and the demon laughed above him, now completely naked, letting him see his gorgeous body in all its glory. His skin was tan, melting into an inky black into his arms and legs, as if they had been dipped in the deepest shadows themselves, ending in those sharp, sharp claws that glinted red like fresh blood. “Get on with it.”

“Pushy.” Xehanort tutted, “This will not do.”

His tail slapped his side, and Braig let out a curse, throwing his head back as he felt Xehanort’s hands run down his chest, infuriating and teasing, and he opened his mouth to speak—when those sharp, sharp nails dug into his skin, tearing them open like a hot knife through butter.

Alarm. The shock of pain mixed with the delirious pleasure that shot through his body when Xehanort ground down against him again, and Braig gasped in surprise. He could feel his blood—hot, warm, _alive—_ join the bleeding red of Xehanort’s claws, and the demon vibrated on top of him, purring in pleasure as he absorbed Braig’s blood.

The witch gaped up at the demon—at how hypnotizingly _beautiful_ he looked like this, descending into the drunkenness of pleasure.

“Then what would make do?” He asked, surprised he could still speak after that, and the demon leered at him.

“Only the best I can.” He replied, and Braig yelled when the world tilted again, and he was manhandled onto his knees. His arms were wrenched back behind him, wrists bound together and attached to a harness around his chest. He gave them an experimental tug, and felt his legs go along with the movement. He looked down, and found that his thighs were splayed wide open, shins pressed as close to the lower thigh as they would comfortably go and bound together with strong black spidersilk that Braig realised were of the same material as the ones that restrained the mistakes in the Citadel dungeon. He tried moving his legs, but there was not a moment’s give in the bindings. He was effectively trapped like this, splayed open, and there was only a moment where he was glad that he came prepared for this—when those hot-cold claws grabbed him by his hair, yanking his head back. He hissed, squirming in his binds as he looked into Xehanort’s golden eyes, and the demon smiled at him cattily.

“That’s better.” He purred. “Now you look like the pliant little thing you’re supposed to be.”

Braig smirked back at him, though he was well aware of his own arousal, the shameless, burning thing that it was, making itself known to the both of them as his erection stood proudly between his splayed thighs, angry red and leaking. The demon chuckled darkly, circling around him like a cat circling its prey, those lips curled up in a knowing smirk that sent a jolt of electricity down Braig’s spine.

“You’re really into this, huh.” He said, trying to sound nonchalant, but he couldn’t help the hitch his breath made when Xehanort stopped in front of him, pressing a bare foot down on his straining erection. The demon’s smirk widened, watching as he slowly wrapped his toes around whatever he could on his cock, and Braig’s hips involuntarily followed his foot, bucking forward ineffectively when Xehanort pulled it away, chuckling darkly.

“I think _you_ are the one more _into_ _this._ ” He said, leaving Braig sitting there, completely exposed, and his tail flicked left and right disinterestedly. Not even his cock was erect, hanging there limply in front of him, and Braig licked his lips.

Well, _fuck_ if his complete disinterest wasn’t getting to him, too.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be perfect beings, huh.” Braig replied, “Not like you’d know anything about that.”

“Silence.” Xehanort snapped, and Braig groaned when his head was yanked back again. His dick gave an interested jerk, his desperate little stutters of his hips giving his complete interest away, and he groaned when he felt Xehanort step on his dick again, body twitching as the friction felt so _good_ it hurt, straining, screaming blood under his skin as Xehanort twisted his foot over its straining, hot length. “If you keep being a recalcitrant little toy, I _will_ break you.”

“Do your worst.” Braig smirked, and Xehanort’s eyes narrowed on him. He was suddenly yanked back, and a strangled cry escaped his throat, choking up when another rope was tied around his throat, choking him with that sweet, _sweet_ pressure that had his cock bouncing in interest. “ _That’s_ your worst?”

“You must be the biggest fool in the world to be testing a demon’s patience,” Xehanort said evenly, and Braig groaned as he felt the sharp _smack_ of his tail against the skin over his ribs, oversensitive and heated up from Xehanort’s touches. It was both too much and never enough, what little the demon gave him, and his hips stuttered weakly, bucking into a touch that isn’t there. The demon smirked slightly, and pushed Braig down, cupping his hand over his chin to guide it to his limp cock. “Get me hard, Xigbar.”

The witch grumbled, but opened his mouth to let the demon slide his cock inside, sucking on it tentatively for a moment. It didn’t taste like anything, save for the faint traces of smoke, but he didn’t mind it so much—it was definitely a _new_ experience, and he almost sighed in relief when he felt it slowly start stirring to life in his mouth.

“You are not doing much to help it along, pet.” Xehanort huffed, and Braig looked up to see it was the silver fox again. He shivered, imagining what he must look right now—cockwarming an old man in the middle of the Darkness that was his home, the scent and feel of Darkness all around him, and Braig almost choked when he heard the demon’s rumbling chuckle as if it was right next to his ear.

“Oh, you _like_ this.” He said, and Braig couldn’t really reply, merely sucking harder on the still mostly-flaccid dick in his mouth. He felt claws petting his hair, and for a moment, he could sigh in contentment—

When suddenly his hand fisted in his hair, holding him in place. A groan escaped his throat, his hands ineffectively struggling against their binds as they tried to grab the thighs bracing his face. His yell was muffled by the cock around him, but he looked up to see the demon’s smirk down at him, making his groin stir in interest.

“I must admit,” the demon said, relief surged in Braig’s chest when he felt Xehanort’s cock begin to swell in his mouth. “I think I like this as well.”

Braig began to suck eagerly, and Xehanort groaned, throwing his head back as he hardened fully, gently rocking his hips into Braig’s mouth while his hard fist held the witch in place. All Braig could do was sit there and take it, moans muffled as the demon’s thrusts began to speed up, the hand in his hair tightening, until the soft head of his cock bumped the back of his neck—

Braig choked, tears welling in his eyes, and the demon smirked, pulling away from him with an obscene, wet _pop._

“You choke rather nicely.” Xehanort hummed approvingly. “Let’s see if you mark prettily too.”

His tail shot forward to hit the inner side of his splayed thighs, and Braig let out a shaky breath past grinning lips. Xehanort mirrored his grin, bringing down his tail like a whip down the length of his skin, each cone leaving an angry red welt against Braig’s skin, slowly turning pale from the difficulty of circulation.

Still, he didn’t feel it. The numbness was drowned out by the pain that sharpened into a startling point, demanding all his focus, demanding all his heart and mind the same way the demon began to invade him—

“ _Fuck!_ ”

“That _is_ the idea, yes.” Xehanort said, and he was the boy again, speaking calmly like they were discussing the weather, shoving two fingers inside him without much preamble.

The Hegemonies of the Coven be merciful, he thought, it was good he came _prepared._

The sensation of smooth, youthful fingers that have never tasted the roughness of housework mixed with the grating feeling of a claw dragging over his inner walls, and Braig hissed, involuntarily clenching around Xehanort’s fingers.

Big mistake, as it dug his claws deeper into himself, and Braig _screamed._

“ _Oh,_ ” Xehanort moaned softly, and Braig realised the demon was palming himself, toying with his erection as it flushed purple, twitching with interest. “You scream like a pricey _whore._ ”

“There’s more where that came from,” Braig panted, fucking back into Xehanort’s fingers to feel them drag back inside him, and _fuck_ if that didn’t feel delicious.

It shouldn’t, but it _did._

Oh, everything involving demons always did things you weren’t supposed to.

Xehanort growled, stuffing two more fingers into Braig, and the witch panted heavily, throwing his head back as his limbs uselessly twitched against their bindings, where he was sure they were steadily losing circulation.

They fucked into him hard, merciless and so _painfully_ sweetly, a kiss like a punch to the gut, a deep, ebbing throb that felt like the whole world was falling apart, bleeding at the seams as Braig felt the Darkness seeping into his body.

If this was the Darkness—this cruel, cold heat—oh, he might not have minded offering his whole being to this demon.

“Go on, little witch,” Xehanort growled, voice gravelly, the silver fox returning to his blurry view, obscured by rainbows of negative light scattering in supernovas in the tears that welled in his eyes. “Seal the deal.”

“W-what—the _fuck—_ ” Braig’s mind was slipping. His vision was blurred with his tears and the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that seemed to drown out everything else. It hurt—so _much,_ there were too many things that _hurt,_ but oh, it hurt so _good._ It was intoxicating. Domineering and distracting, this sweet pain that tore him away from the tyranny of light, into the sweetness of a knife into his back within the dark.

Suddenly it was all gone. Suddenly, Braig felt like he was shoved under an intense, skin-searing light, and he hissed, growling gutturally as he tried curling in on himself, but the binds against his skin burned like a brand.

“ ** _Seal the deal._** ” Xehanort’s voice was otherworldly, the only tether he had back into the sweet comfort of darkness, and Braig shuddered. “ ** _Beg for it._** ”

“Please—oh please—”

It was so easy, suddenly. Desperation layered over his throat like black ice, and the words tumbled out of his mouth from the lack of friction, panicked and skittering over the smooth, pristine surface, crashing disastrously into one another.

“Please, Xehanort, please, take me—take me, please, _fuck me—_ ”

“Good boy.” Xehanort growled, and Braig was on the bed again, in the comforting darkness of the room, his back pressed into the sheets as his hips were lifted, pressing against the spongy head of a cock that slid inside him. He _screamed,_ feeling the burn split him open, far too unprepared and yet oh so perfectly _painful._ Braig struggled against the spidersilk holding him down, squirming in Xehanort’s hands as the old man pounded into him without mercy.

It was hard, oh it was hard and _fast,_ and he could feel the demon’s claws digging into the meat of his thighs, in the curve of his ass, leaving pinpricks of blood trickling down his skin. It felt butterfly-light, distracting and disparate against the lewd sounds of skin slapping skin.

The impending sensation of climax was approaching. He could feel it, a building, roaring wave of a tsunami rising from deep in his gut, coiling steadily as pressure built and built. The line between pleasure and pain blurred like fog, and when Xehanort leaned down to sink those sharp, sharp teeth into the hollow of his neck, puncturing his vein to let blood gush out, he only cried out in pleasure, back arching into the demon’s heat as he came untouched, spilling white between them.

Xehanort grunted, his claws raking up Braig’s body as he rutted into him, growling low in his throat as his own orgasm approached, and the witch couldn’t tear his eyes away from the demon, resolving to lie there and take it, drowning in a sea of heady pleasure as he felt his body start to grow cold and limp, his mind fogging up thickly with the blood gushing out of his throat.

The demon reached up towards his face, and Braig’s eyes widened—

Xehanort dug his claws into his right eye, yanking out the organ before digging downwards into the skin of his cheek, and Braig _screamed._

“ _So you have agreed, so it shall be._ ” The demon hissed in the Old Tongue, voice a swirling, writhing grit of a sound in Braig’s ears, “ _You have paid in blood and pleasure, and to you I devote myself until the fruition of your desire._ ”

Braig couldn’t stop screaming, not as his life began to fade away, and it broke off into a choked gasp when Xehanort came, roaring with such power that the very air around them shimmered and shook. He could feel hot, searing seed spill into him, and Braig shouted when he came again, not knowing when he’d gotten hard again in the first place, not with all this blood, with his _eye, just gone—_

And with a pop of a breath, suddenly it was gone.

The extreme heat, the mess, the slick of his blood and cum on his body.

Braig blinked, finding himself kneeling on the ground, in front of a broken summoning circle. The candles were extinguished, run down until only wax remained, and the air around him was as still as can be, colder than ever before. He shakily got up to his feet, and checked himself over—the puncture wound on his neck was gone, the claw marks. He poked at his legs—there was no sensation of the angry red welts on his thighs, no burn marks from the spidersilk restraining his limbs. Hand shaking, he reached up to feel his cheek—and sure enough, the scar was there. Reaching higher, he felt a crevice, and a numbness came over him when he realised he couldn’t see out of his right eye.

He hurried to a nearby broken mirror, peering into the shards that still clung onto its frame to gape in horror at the huge gaping gap that was now his eye, the skin having grown over it like he’d been born like that.

His blood turned to ice. “Oh.” He breathed.

In his mind, he could hear Xehanort chuckling.

 _Dance, pet._ He said, _Let’s see what you can do._

**Author's Note:**

> yeehaw! that was wild! did you know i posted this during work ?


End file.
